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Time is a Thief

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One day at the Beach House while participating in yet another round of Jack-Assory with Roslyn, Mike and Libby’s young dog, Sarrah slipped on the smooth floor and yelped.  She got up trembling a bit, favoring her hind leg.  In an instant the mood and her life, changed.  I massaged her leg and we kept them mostly apart for the rest of the weekend.  Sunday afternoon I took her on our last walk to the beach, for the weekend.  She was a little wobbly and I sat on a log, held her and wept.  I took her leash off (in violation of the law) and let her walk on her own, with a spark of energy from the added freedom.  She enjoyed the stroll, but was in pain and dragging her feet.  Looking back I was scared, afraid that Sarrah was near the end of her life.

Back home we immediately cut back on the distance of our usual walks from over a mile per day to just few blocks, as Sarrah was dragging her toenails and was (depressingly) happy to do less.  I was looking into all options like dogcarts, surgery, and whatever might be a cure or any method of preservation for my friend.  I desperately needed to find a cure for what time had done to her, to replace what was Stolen.  Around this time Sarrah and I had bodies of approximately the same age and condition.

I decided to try Acupuncture for her, as I’ve found it to bring much relief.  In some ways it would be easier for Sarrah to gain from it, as animal’s don’t have to ‘turn off the human preconceived mental junk’ in order to have an open mind.  Over the last couple of years I had read a few news articles about the growing practice of animal acupuncture and the successes with it.  Fortunately, the progressive culture in the Pacific Northwest is open to many forms of alternative care for people and animals making these treatments readily available.  Fortunately, I found a veterinary clinic nearby that offered acupuncture and began the effort to restore what could be, for Sarrah.  Initially she was nervous, a little scared and not trusting the surroundings of this new place that had similar sounds and smells of the vet clinic that she absolutely hated.  Shortly after arriving we met the acupuncturist.  This wonderful veterinarian, Darla Rewers was the first one that I recall meeting who seemed genuinely delighted to be with the patient and openly passionate about caring for them. Sarrah picked up on this faster than I and seemed to trust her.  It was determined that hip dysplasia, common for Dalmatians’ and probably a tear of some tissue was the cause of Sarrah’s loss of stability in her leg.  The initial treatment of just a few general points and a couple specific for her hindquarters was sort of an easing into treatment with needles.

Sarrah initially trembled and hated the session, but noticed improvement almost immediately and tolerated the treatment.  We went frequently and with each session the quantity of treatment points increased, she improved with each visit.  Soon she stopped dragging her toenails and regained most of her abilities, with the exception of having a trick hip and a need to avoid slippery surfaces.  We both, through error and trial, discovered many little things that Sarrah either needed help with (such as climbing into the back of the car and rug runners for slippery floors) or had to avoid completely (no more beloved games of tug-o-war and going down stairs, so I carried her).  I used to whisper in her ear while lifting and carrying her “Us old dogs, Gotta stick together”.

I shared some of Sarrah’s acupuncture experiences with my acupuncturist.  We talked about how gains in health and pain relief with animals prove that it is not merely just in human minds.  Occasionally, I also ‘stood on my soapbox’ and preached the proof based experiences that I have witnessed with this ancient method of healing, for animals and people.  It was a miracle at least to me, that the clock was turned back a bit for Sarrah.  A huge gift!

I started playing Johnny Cash singing “Hurt” for her visits, too.

Spring

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While all caught up in moments, season’s change.  We watch them through the windows of our homes, cars and places of work, but until you get outside and walk in them frequently you don’t really experience what all of the seasonal days have to offer.

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Hello!  Spring was aptly named-all of a sudden, one day, there it is!  Plants awaken with… birds singing the praises of its arrival.  Some years our spring sneaks in early, at the mercy of winter.  Bulbs defiantly peak up in various yard borders, returning the favor of past work, giving a hint of color and brighter days to come.  If looked at closely enough, buds appear on dormant trees showing signs of waking up, some flashing peaks of pink and white flowers.  Soon these trees will make a scented canopy over some sidewalks.  Lawns begin to wake up and grow erratically, with some darker green fertilized spots.  Unfortunately this growth brings about the noisy season of the obnoxious grass cutting and mechanized yard maintenance machines.

Success

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Time proved to us that we had achieved success.  We found the kind of place that you dread leaving.  Where that last day starts with a quiet ache and as other people leave, a somber tone increasingly takes over.  When afternoon breaks taken from the bustle of packing and cleaning, have a sad coating.  Where your mind reflects on the latest stay, dips into the past memories and shuffles them all together.  You start to sneak looks forward, plotting the next escape.  Sarrah had a somber demeanor as she watched the ritualistic events of the last day; she quickly recognized the patterns and knew that the trip was near its end.  You know it is good, when it hurts to leave.

To me a big part of this day is the last walk; Every trip has a last walk, to the beach.  Preferably as close to departure back to reality, as possible.  Usually, taken after most people have gone, giving way to greater observation in solitude.  Along the way small things seem different.  The weathered chairs of wood, quietly stare back at you, as if waiting.  Shuttered empty houses look lonelier.  Even the sea birds seem a little forlorn.

Somehow the ocean sounds different, on the last walk.  The constant roar sounds more like a lonely, resonating hollow moan as if to be saying, “Don’t go…”, maybe “Farewell…”, or perhaps “Happy Trails…”.  I feel and absorb this more every ‘Last Time’.  On these walks, the ocean smells more like a salty tear soaked kiss.  I occasionally wonder… Does the ocean miss us when we are gone?  Will it miss me, after I have gone?

In the joy killing spirit of ‘Tomorrow is promised to No One’ you never know when the actual last walk, may be.  I do not allow myself to dwell on this heavy finality, too much.  But I do make an extra effort to savor all moments… of each, last one.

Unwanted Gifts

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Sarrah, Nissa and I explored the roads, trails, miles of beach and rolling dunes.  We never tired of these journeys and the ever-changing collection of treasure discovered along the way.  The ocean constantly changes the beach and gives back an endless amount of debris from the land.  Some storms take away sand, others bring it back and then some.  Those that come in the winter pile up logs and other assorted remains washed down streams.

Sadly, not all is wonderful. The ocean is always giving back the unwanted gifts of the human experience, garbage.  I began to collect these ugly bits of proof and pieces of disrespect.  The more we looked, the more we found and brought back with us.  I began to take ownership, understanding what is called “stewardship” and feel like this was ‘our beach’ and wondered why so many other people were just walking past these ‘treasures’, do they not see the garbage?  All of this reminds of when I was a kid in the early seventies, there was a television commercial with a stoic, once proud American Indian, standing with a tear in his eye watching garbage come to shore in the waves.  Perhaps time has come to replay it for those who missed the message and do not recall pride.  Or maybe a newer version to make us more aware of the long term affects of mishandling things like plastic.  Regardless of the cause of garbage turned into litter in the wild, it belongs to all of us and it is not ok for me to walk on by.

Sand

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Aside from the Ocean, the obvious main ingredient of this long beach is sand.  Unlike the mostly barnacle covered rocky beaches of the Puget Sound, near home, this beach is sandy, miles… of fine tan-grey colored sand.  Depending on the tide there is about twenty to one hundred yards of beach from the edge of the grass-covered dunes to the changing ocean line.  Here the ocean licks the sand, packing it into a high-speed surface, making for a smooth run near the edge.  Or where as Sarrah preferred it, sand piled loosely by the wind, storms and high tides up against the dunes where the grass grows and waves like wheat fields; catching the blowing sand into thick, fluffy unstable drifts for jumping and plowing through.

Sand is magical; it brings out playfulness in a dog, youth in the old and delight in a kid.  Sand does not care how careful you are, it will get into everything.  These little bits of ancient rock ground in the waves, spread by the wind, over time will get between your toes and everywhere else.  Sarrah loved it!  She did her part to share it.  It seemed no matter how well I wiped her feet, she somehow smuggled some in.